


In Moments of Madness

by swooning



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swooning/pseuds/swooning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Caprica was not always the best place for good decision-making.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Moments of Madness

She didn’t know what had started it.   
  
She didn’t really even like the man.   
  
Well… not quite the truth. She liked the man himself well enough, in a certain limited way. It was what he represented that irked her so extremely. Anarchy, dissent, violence: the opposite of all the principles she had spent her lifetime serving.   
  
Still, he was charming in his way, subversively so at times. She had to watch herself, avoid _being_  charmed by him, avoid losing sight of the fact that he was obviously  _trying_  to charm her. From the first, it had been like that with both of them; their little game of kisses on the cheek during his early ascendancy to legitimate office had less to do with politics than with this subtext between them. She had supposed even then that she might succumb, some day, but it would be on her terms. And at the very, very least, only if he would agree not to discuss politics around her; it always just made her want to slap him, and that emotion was too perilously close to wanting to shut him up by some other means. She could imagine sleeping with him all too easily… she just hoped that, if it ever happened, he didn’t turn out to be a talker.   
  
If Laura were honest with herself – and she tried to be – she would have to acknowledge that the thing she liked least about Zarek, the personality flaw that really annoyed her, was abhorrent to her primarily because it was her own greatest weakness as well: his absolute certainty that he was  _right_ , and the ever-present, sometimes only thinly disguised assurance that nearly everybody else was therefore simply  _wrong_. A trait she had not discovered in herself as a teacher, only as a politician. The worlds, she found, abounded with idiots, and she had felt herself develop a sense of moral obligation to provide some sort of leadership, guidance, to these unfortunate and benighted souls. ‘Moral obligation,’ she called it, because ‘condescension’ was such an ugly word. ‘Smugness’ was no prize, either.   
  
She had so often longed to wipe that smug little smile right off Zarek’s mouth and replace it with respect. Her competitive nature, she supposed, wanting to make sure he knew that she was not among the idiots, that she herself was one of the knowledgeable and therefore deserving of his respect and deference. Or if not deference, because she would have been suspicious of that from him, at least the camaraderie of true equals. And she had done that, actually. She was one of the few, she knew, that he actually bothered to speak  _with_ , rather than  _to_. A dubious honor, but it gave her a little thrill, anyway. This dangerous man, this mad bomber turned statesman, and out of all the humans that were left, he respected  _her_.   
  
That was probably what had gotten her into trouble, she realized too late. By putting herself on equal footing with Zarek, earning his respect, she had also wound up aligning herself with him, against the field of the ignorant. There were shared looks of amusement, unspoken moments in which one might look at the other and both would know the message was, “I am trying not to roll my eyes at the stupidity of all this.” Sometimes, there was actual eye-rolling, but never when anyone else might see. They had somehow become a secret community of two, united by a common sense of superiority.   
  
At the moment, however, they were united by a lot more than just their shared superiority complex. At the moment, they were united by their lips, and by the heated lengths of their bodies, entwined and necessarily already too close, by dint of the cot’s narrowness. And by his smug, self-assured hand, which had already negotiated its way under her knobbly sweater and two shirts, and was now asserting its own brand of superiority in the region of her right breast.   
  


* * * * *

  
  
It had been a few months after landfall, more than enough time later for the stills to have produced their fledgling runs of ghastly alcoholic suicide. Colonial Day. And in the tent set up as a meeting hall, the former crew members of Galactica had gathered with a select few others to celebrate and to remember. She didn’t normally indulge, but in the spirit of defiance, of freedom from office, of sudden health, she had gotten carried away. It hadn’t taken much. By the first swig of the second cupful, her head had begun to swirl alarmingly, and all at once the crowd in the drafty tent was too much to bear.   
  
With smiles and apologies, and a demeanor of sober calm she wore but did not feel, she had made her way to the flap and outside into the blessedly chilly night. Fog had begun to rise, seeping from the ground and blanketing it with a hint of white, like a cruel reminder of the snow that never came. Cold near to freezing, all the time, but there was never snow, and the air was still so humid that all clothing, all fabric, felt perpetually damp. Finding an overturned crate down the road from the tent, Laura sat gratefully and reflected, not for the first time, on how such a seemingly minor element of the climate could become so pervasive. Damp sheets, damp socks, damp coats and sweaters… wet dog. That was what they smelled like, she realized. A colony of wet, skinny dogs, with no dumpsters to scavenge for food…  
  
“Laura?”  
  
She jumped at the voice, so close. Zarek moved too quietly, like he was stalking prey; she had noticed this before. The damp, however, fooled the ear, making things sound closer than they were. Zarek stood a respectful distance away, looking at her expectantly.   
  
“Tom. Happy Colonial Day.”  
  
“Are you all right? When you walked out, you looked a little unsteady.” He stepped closer, hunching his shoulders against the wind. Too vain to wear a hat, Laura surmised; the wet breeze blew his hair flat against his neck and cheek. Or perhaps he simply had no hat.   
  
“I’m fine,” she replied evenly, a bit too carefully. “Just wanted some, ah…”  
  
“Fresh air?” He finished her sentence with a wry chuckle, and she found herself joining in despite herself. “You might want to try another planet.”  
  
“Would that I could, Tom. Would that I could.”  
  
“Hear, hear. But you didn’t hear it from me.”  
  
“Of course not, Mr. Vice President.” She glanced up just in time to see the hint of disgust on his face. “Title not sitting well?”  
  
“Do you really need to ask?” He gestured to the crate she was using as a bench. “Is there room on that thing?” She scooted over obligingly, and he seated himself beside her, his long frame blocking some of the wind. “Thanks. Feels good to sit down, I had too much of that swill the crew was serving.”  
  
“Of course they aren’t the crew any more… I know what you mean, but I think any amount would probably have been too much.”  
  
“So… when was the last time you had to leave a party halfway through to get some fresh air?”  
  
She considered that for a moment. “College.”  
  
“Mm. Me, too.”  
  
“I always swore…”  
  
“… never again.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
Zarek shifted his legs out in front of him, the movement causing the leather of his jacket to creak slightly.  _At least he doesn’t smell like wet dog,_  Laura thought incongruously, stifling a giggle.   
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing.” She waved a hand dismissively. “So why are you here, Tom? Did Baltar send you to soften me up? Work me over? What?”  
  
“Laura, I’m hurt,” he countered smoothly. “I can’t believe you would think such a thing of me.”  
  
“What, that you would work me over?”  
  
“No, that I would do anything on Baltar’s orders.”  
  
For the first time, she turned and appraised him directly, not so much suspicious as curious.   
  
“Why  _are_  you here?”  
  
A rueful smile worked its way across his mouth and eyes, a self-deprecating look that surprised her.   
  
“Parties aren’t much fun when you’re the Vice President,” he admitted. “Not that I’ve ever been one for parties.”  
  
“Political or otherwise.” She studied him a moment longer before looking away again. “You’ll get no sympathy from me.”  
  
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”  
  
Laura laughed briefly, sharply, the clear sound carrying over the muffled din of the party still raging a few tents away.  
  
“You’re a smartass.” She said it as though realizing it for the first time.   
  
Zarek just nodded in agreement, then stood. The sudden return of the wind against her face sobered Laura up a bit, just enough to make her feel fully awake.   
  
“Walk you to your tent?” The cordiality caught her off guard, and she found herself automatically responding in the affirmative before sense could prevail.   
  
A small herd of revelers passed them by as she sat hesitating. Across the camp, she could hear similar noises, the festivity sounding somehow edgy, forced, like a crowd on the verge of a riot. Happy voices, but spoiling for a fight.   
  
“Probably not a great night to hike across camp alone,” Zarek commented, as if he had caught her train of thought. Even as she watched him, she realized he was scanning their surroundings with constant, possibly unconscious vigilance. The terrorist turned guardian.  _So be it, then._  
  
“Let’s go,” she replied, as she rose and headed down the muddy road.  _More damp. More primitive. We’re regressing, here._  Laura thought of the Admiral, an invisible point in the night sky, walking down one of the corridors of Galactica even as she trod this muddy path on the planet below. Adama never having to polish his shoes up there, unless they acquired a scuff, because shoes collected no dirt on the ship. Dry air, clean shoes…  
  
“Watch out,” Zarek said, taking her elbow to steer her clear of a particularly large puddle. It did not escape her notice -  _Why are you here, Tom?_  - that he kept his hand in place long after the puddle was safely navigated.   
  
She thought on Adama, warm and clean and dry, sitting on his leather couch, with his sure supply of electricity and hot water, with  _books_. She felt the nearly icy water from a dozen smaller puddles seep through her boots and into her socks, defeating the warming countereffect of the alcohol… and she  _let_  Zarek keep his hand on her arm, all the way to her tent. 

  
* * * * *

  
One thing so often led to another, if cooler heads did not prevail. Laura entered her tent, not inviting Zarek to follow, but not bidding him goodnight, and he drew his own conclusions. Vigilant animal that he was, living in a time of uncertainty, he would not question why he might be given such an opportunity. Enough to know, as he surely did, that neither of them would suffer emotional repercussions from whatever might transpire once the tent flap fell behind him, closing them in together. Other decisions they had to make might cause regret, second-guessing; but not that one. He sensed her interest as keenly as if he could actually smell it or taste it.   
  
Laura turned once she had removed her coat, turned on the small space heater that did so little to beat back the oppressive chill. She lifted one eyebrow at Zarek, who simply cocked his head to one side in reply. She calculated, he gauged, and their eyes met for too long to ignore what stood, unspoken, between them. It didn’t need to be spoken. When Zarek unzipped his jacket and tossed it lightly to land on the small table that served as a desk, Laura nodded and sat on the bed to remove her boots.   
  
There was no wooing; he rightly sensed it wouldn’t be wise, and she was being too deliberately pragmatic. Sweet nothings, awkward laughter, would have only spoiled the lack of mood. But tension there was, in abundance, and it served quite well enough.   
  
Laura was almost startled to feel the flutter that thrilled through her, tight throat to nipples to groin, when Zarek finally approached and took her face between his long hands. She had somehow expected him to be taller, close up… he  _seemed_  taller than he was, and she wondered fleetingly if that was now her type. Men who seemed taller than they were…   
  
Pushing those thoughts firmly down into the darkest reaches of her mind, Laura fisted her hands into Zarek’s sweater and leaned into his kiss aggressively, eyes squeezing shut. He seemed to expect it, and received it solidly, refusing to be drawn. Passionate, but measured, he kept to his own pace, exploring her mouth with increasing boldness. His own hands remained at her face, only slipping back to cup her head more firmly, lace through her fog-dampened hair. But he made no move to stop her as she pulled his shirt free of his trousers, ran her hands under his sweater to unfasten the buttons. He was not as unaffected as he seemed, however; the evidence of his response to her was clear the moment he pre-empted her move to take the sweater and shirt off by finally lowering his hands to her waist and pulling her closer.   
  
Zarek reached lower, cupping her ass and lifting her almost to her toes, echoing her small, needy groan with one of his own. When he drew her over to the cot, she followed, sliding under the blanket alongside him. The warmth was delicious, in and of itself, but paled beside the heat that began to kindle now. Now, it was her turn to slip fingers through hair, let her mind drift as she lost herself in kissing him, while he efficiently removed first her sweater and the thermal shirt beneath it – dislodging himself from the kiss only long enough to pull the garments free – then her pants and finally her underwear. Appreciating with hands, rather than eyes, the finer qualities of her figure. Demonstrating with touch, rather than words, the depth of his appreciation. She was surprised again, at her own response, when he removed her bra and began almost reverently stroking and kissing her breasts, shifting his weight to one side, to the knee he slid between her thighs, to work his way down the crest of one to reach a nipple. Teasing there, doing everything but taking it into his mouth and suckling, which she suddenly wanted him to do so keenly it was almost painful. As was the sudden sensation of wetness between her thighs, long forgotten, bringing with it an ache that she resented because she knew quite well it was nothing she could manage herself.   
  
 _Nothing you want Zarek to manage, either…_  her traitor mind intruded again, and she repressed it firmly. Because Zarek was the one who was here, after all. Her options were limited. Here on New Caprica, they lived to redefine the notion of limited options, to stretch what was available until it could be stretched no further, use it until it was spent… and she was far from spent. She still had some stretching to do.   
  
So she reluctantly pulled away, shivering with the cold of exposed skin and the rush of hormones, and removed Zarek’s sweater and shirt, pants and torn boxer shorts, with a furious purpose. He still seemed unsurprised, unfazed,  _knowing_ , and she once again longed to jar him out of smugness. He had one advantage, however, which was that he had not been celibate for going on two years. Unlike Laura, he had never found himself in a political situation that required him to demonstrate much personal restraint; after all, he had already blown up buildings, initiated a prison ship riot and takeover, and helped to engineer the election of Baltar… what would his image have to lose, if he consorted with prostitutes or kept a harem or did anything else within the bounds of the law? He had not done much along those lines, in truth, having little time and a certain incongruous sense of sexual morality; but there had been a few women. Laura, on the other hand, was nearly at her own body’s mercy, slaking a thirst she had grown so used to she had forgotten it was there until it began to be satisfied. His cock, hard and warm against her hip when he pulled her down again and kissed her, drew her like a magnet. She wanted to get closer still, wanted it inside her, felt  _made_  of want.   
  
When she found him with her hand, encircled his girth then slipped her cupped hand along his length in an exploratory way, he was only too ready to return the favor. Again, her tension worked against her, cracking the control she wanted to maintain; the first teasing brush of his fingers against her labia made her breath catch, and she gasped outright when his fingertip slipped between her wet folds and teased them open just enough to expose her clit. A brief touch to that already-swollen bit of flesh, a flash of desire that numbed her legs, then down again, dipping just fractionally inside her before meandering back to her clit. And then again, and again, never quite enough, Zarek seeming to read her reactions as accurately as if they were displayed on a meter.   
  
His knowing smile was back; even in the dim light thrown by the heater, she could see it as he watched her, propped up on one elbow, giving her only enough space to keep her hand around his erection while his own hand was busy driving her insane.  
  
 _Gods help me, he knows what this is doing to me._  Laura closed her eyes against his smug expression this time, gave up the effort to throw his composure, and let her arms fall loose, let herself simply enjoy what was happening. What Zarek was willing to give, she would take. As soon as her eyes were closed, he gave more, dipping his head to press gentle bites from her ear down to her collarbone, then shifting yet again to her breasts and finally pulling a nipple between his lips, rolling the firm bud with his tongue and then sucking in time to the movements of his fingers below. Stroking her clit, and then retreating, delving each time further inside until first one finger, then two, slipped entirely inside her. Longer fingers than her own, easily long enough to curl upward and seek her most sensitive spot. She felt so close, too close, but he never gave quite enough for her to take herself over the edge; she did not know whether she voiced the growl of frustration she felt or not, but the cot shook with Zarek’s chuckle.   
  
“Laura, I…”  
  
“Shut up. Really.”  
  
Laura pushed his hand away and sat up, slinging a leg over to straddle him even as she pushed him down flat on his back. Ignoring the cold from the loss of the blanket, and the metal of the cot’s edge digging into her knee, she grasped his cock firmly, positioned herself, and pushed onto him in one sharp motion. It would have been too rough, had she not been so wet; she had the fleeting satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows fly up in surprise, his breath hitch, before she found a rhythm and her own eyes closed once more.   
  
He was long, a little too long, and hit bottom with each stroke of her hips; she was not quite there, and this time she knew he heard her express her frustration. A change of angle, leaning forward, at last brought her close enough to brush against his pelvis when he was fully sheathed; Laura slowed her pace and clenched around him, trying unaccountably to draw out the inevitable once she had arrived at it. But the stimulation against her clit was too much, and within moments she felt it overtaking her, the electric bliss of orgasm spinning though her in wave after wave, pulling a name from her at its height.   
  
Not Zarek’s name, of course; not that he seemed to mind much, if indeed he noticed. He was nearing climax, too, straining up into her with his hands braced on her hips. When she opened her eyes, shuddering her way down, she could see his jaw clenched, his head thrown back and to one side. He wore something like a grimace in the moment before he cried out and she felt him spasm inside her. The pained expression turned to one of intense relief, then to a suddenly boyish look of unadulterated happiness. She watched him dispassionately, looking away before he could open his eyes, before he saw her watching.   
  
Zarek opened his eyes, instead, to see Laura watching the wall of the tent, the darkness of the room, nothing at all. They were still joined at the hip, literally, yet she was as far removed from him now as if she were in another room. It was an astonishing and slightly unnerving glimpse of her, and he almost regretted seeing it. Not quite, however; she was beautiful, and naked, and had after all just frakked him. He could not bring himself to regret  _that_. When he caressed her thighs and then made a move to urge her closer for an embrace, she finally looked back at him, her eyebrow lifting just as it had before they had started.   
  
This time, however, she was not asking him to stay with that look, she was politely suggesting that he make a graceful exit. With a resigned smile and very soft, self-deprecating snort, Zarek released her. She took the blanket with her, wrapping it around her shoulders and walking over to the camp stove, where she set a pan of water to boil and pulled out one chipped cup. Tea… for one.   
  
By the time Laura turned back around, Zarek had nearly finished dressing. He applied himself to the task studiously, avoiding her eyes without being obvious about it. She felt an inexplicable desire to apologize, and almost did, but caught herself.   
  
“Thank you for the walk home, Tom,” she said instead, and smiled when he laughed out loud.   
  
“Ah… any time,” he replied, grinning broadly. Apology accepted.   
  
“Probably not,” she admitted with a shrug. “But…”  
  
“I know.”   
  
“I would offer you a cup of tea, but – “  
  
“No, thank you, I see you only have one cup out.”  
  
“Well, I only  _have_  one cup.”  
  
“If you had two cups, would you want me to stay and have tea?”  
  
She thought about it for a moment, giving the idea serious consideration. “I don’t know,” she said finally. The bitter resentment was rising again, and she suddenly wanted Zarek gone, gone before he fell victim to the mood she felt coming on. “Right now I think I just need to have a quiet cup of tea alone.”  
  
He saw her expression close like a book, and knew, as he had known for some time, that he was not the man to open that particular volume. If he had his suspicions regarding who that man might be, he was too smart to voice them. Zarek nodded, took her hand for the briefest of squeezes, and left without saying another word.   
  
Laura snapped the tent flap shut after him, tugged the blanket more tightly about her, and then sat and stared at the pan of steaming water as if she could divine the future from the rising tendrils of vapor. But they were silent as the grave, silent as space, or at least not loud enough to be heard over the din in her mind. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she flicked them away in annoyance.   
  
When the water boiled, and she had poured and steeped the tea, she stared just as long into her teacup for wisdom, until the tea was gone and its temporary warmth had dissipated in her stomach. The tent felt colder than ever. Unable to sleep, Laura caught sight of her boots, uppers still sopping wet, and soles caked with sticky New Caprican mud. With a sigh of disgust, she flicked the lantern on, donned her pants and shirt again, then bent – as she did most nights - to the task of scraping off the mud and positioning the boots near the heater. She draped her socks and sweater over the back of a chair, close enough to catch a bit of the dry heat. With luck, they would all be dry enough to wear by morning. The tent, however, would smell of wet dog all night long.

 

 


End file.
